


Meet Cute

by apiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2012 continues to be the year of I write whatever the fuck I want, Blood, Cutting, Gen, Knives, Meet-Cute, Scars, a nice cup of tea, fluffy bunny - Freeform, i know how about, in my head Sebastian Moran is played by Craig Parkinson, jim is actually kind of boring to write, job interview, marking territory, morals what morals who the fuck needs morals, this is totally meet-cute, what else should i tag this with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/pseuds/apiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty become employed and employer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meet Cute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fahye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fahye/gifts).



> Like the tags say, Sebastian Moran is very firmly Craig Parkinson in my head.

The day Jim acquires a dog he's not looking for anything in particular. You put out the word, usually, and the froth that builds conspiracy accrues outside your door like scum at the edge of a river, begging to be shaped into something solid and workable. That's the trouble with this line of business; it is disappointingly easy.

"Heard you might need a marksman," says the man sitting on the doorstep of Jim's current building, his back military-straight and a betting slip sneaking from his coat pocket. He looks like a hungover rat, and despite the attempt at being eager-to-please he also looks as if he _sweats_ sarcasm.

"What the fuck would I need a _marksman_ for?" Jim asks, with his neighbourly smile. "Are you alright? I mean, okay, primary school kids are a bit _annoying_ but I'm sure making them stand in the corner is more effective--"

"Shaun Goodall sent me," said the ex-army rifleman, unmoved by this act.

Jim lets the smile fade from his face and shuffles Shaun Goodall to the front of his brain and plants an imaginary knife wound in his throat. He's been told about acting on initiative. You send people _in need_ of me to me, Shaun, you don't send people to me thinking I need them.

"Won't you come in and have a cup of tea?" he suggests, using the same teacher's voice as before, but without the mask. Some people might call that dissonant, but he's got the measure of this man; he's ex-military, and got far enough in the army to get that posture down, which means he is at some level good at taking orders. He has debts, addictions - there's nicotine on his fingers and alcohol in his sweat, and the Ladbrokes slip in his pocket - which will make him compliant and easy to control. Jim can do what he likes, here.

"Oh, thank you very much," says the ex-officer; Jim notes there's definitely a hint of _giving_ orders here too, and that's going to have to go. The man is _trying_ to be sincere and coming across only as obsequious and facetious.

They go inside. Jim makes tea.

"Credentials?" Jim says, over the lip of his "World's Best Dad" mug. The steam rises in his eyes, and he doesn't blink. Neither, he notices, does the man who has introduced himself as Moran; blinking in the face of irritation means you lose sight of your target, and this particular marksman has been in the hills of Afghanistan where irritations to the eye are plentiful. He hasn't said as much yet, but he hardly needs to.

"Top marks in marksmanship, highest kill rate, medals, civilian awards, etc," Moran says, sipping his tea, with a dismissive drawl. He is somewhere between army stiffness and insolent sprawling. "You can check my records."

"I can," Jim agrees. "I might require a little employment test."

"Alright," says Moran, sipping his tea.

"Teenage mother and five-year-old son?" Jim says, holding out the packet of Hobnobs at the same time.

"Alright," says Moran, taking one.

Jim nods and lifts his eyebrows. "Got your own gun?"

"Several," says Moran, putting the biscuit in the palm of his hand.

"How are you with a knife?"

"Not bad," says Moran, slowly swallowing another mouthful of tea. "Better with a rifle."

"Could you stand up for me for a moment?" Jim asks, taking a sip of his own tea.

Moran puts down his mug carefully, lays the biscuit across the top so as not to get crumbs on the carpet - a nice touch, Jim feels, someone has trained him well already - and stands to attention.

"Oh relax, this isn't a parade ground," Jim scoffs, putting down his tea and surveying the marksman as if he still needs to take the measure of the man.

Moran relaxes, and waits. There is something wry in his eye, but he lets none of his patient deference slip.

Jim has the blade of a switchblade against Moran's crotch in a matter of seconds, a handful of greasy hair in his fist, and a marksman twisted sideways and down to his level without complaint and with only a _nrf_ of surprised effort. Moran doesn't struggle or twitch.

Jim pokes the tip of the knife at Moran's scrotum.

"How are you with knives?" he asks in the same voice as before.

"Largely indifferent," Moran says, a little out of breath, "but I can practice."

Jim releases his hair. Moran remains in the same position, as if waiting to be reset. "Wash your hair."

"Alright," says Moran.

"Give me your arm," Jim adds.

Moran straightens, extends his left arm, and watches Jim with the same patient expression as a Brahman cow, if sacred bovines also contrived to look as if they were a second from sneering.

Jim rolls back his shirt sleeve delicately. The skin is still deeply tanned, flecked with white marks and one white circle half-way down the inside of his forearm roughly the size of a five pence piece. Moran only watches as if this is perfectly normal job interview behaviour, even when Jim strokes the glassy surface of the scar with his thumbnail.

"What's this?" he asks, although it's painfully, embarrassingly obvious and only a four-year-old would need to ask.

"Cigarette burn," Moran says without hesitation.

"From?"

"A cigarette?" Moran suggests, and there is a flood of sarcasm raging in a torrent below the polite, flat tones of his voice.

" _Really_ ," Jim says, stroking the burn with his thumbnail again, "make one more facetious remark and I will feed you your own ears."

"Me dad," Moran says flatly. Jim feels the muscles in his forearm twitch minutely in his grasp; Moran wants to pull away but has the sense not to try it.

Jim nods solemnly, as if he's been given a handsome tip, and takes the switchblade from Moran's balls. He holds it like a pen, and without taking a moment to align himself - he knows his own aim well enough - he draws the knife hard across the white circle, scoring it through the centre and down over the curve of Moran's tanned arm.

There is a hiss of pained breath bitten off above him; Moran's arm twitches automatically, and there's a slow exhalation as of pain management by breathing, but the ex-soldier neither jerks his arm away nor objects. He doesn't swear. He doesn't ask what the fuck is going on or call Jim a psychopath (an entirely inaccurate diagnosis and one Jim resents), he doesn't cry out. He only stands and holds Jim's gaze with his eyebrows registering confusion and his eyes a little more damp than they ought to be, as blood treks down the curve of his arm and begins pooling for the fall.

Jim lets his arm go.

Moran continues to stand with it outstretched.

Jim folds the switchblade.

"Does this mean I've got the job?" Moran asks, dripping blood onto the carpet.

"It means I've got a marksman," Jim says, picking his tea up from the table. "You can take the biscuit. Don't call me. I'll call you."


End file.
